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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/21/2006 10:28:11 AM | Imagine that God is a poet
and all of this is an epic
he’s writing. He won’t show it
to any of us until he’s done.
Is it breaking his heart to write it
or an exercise in immortal fun?
He composes a verse and the earth
erupts in green and brown and red...
Another verse brings dread
and hope. He’s got the swing
of it now, creates love and hate,
famine, abundance and gluttony,
the church and ecclesiastic enmity.
For a spot of supernatural mirth
he seeds the earth
with French and English, Latvian,
Urdu, with Hindus, Caucasians,
Chinese and all the rest.
He can hardly keep abreast
of his imagination. Oh, so now
he makes up nations, followed by war,
medicine for which he creates disease,
cars and pollution, rockets
to the far reaches of the universe
and hearts closed tighter than a miser’s purse.
He’s playing his game.
He’s writing your name
in a line with a sinister end.
In the grand scheme of things
we’re all more or less neo-natal.
When God composes poetry
the end-rhymes can be fatal.
J. Newman © 21Oct06 | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/22/2006 2:49:02 PM | To my opinion God's poetry would be a good one... perhaps the thoughts it would
make linger on our minds would simply be too much for us to handle...
One of God's words may be too much for any mere mortal to handle...
Perhaps why he prefers to create things that are bigger than words.
Apparently the Devil as the right to tempt us but my guess would be that most of us
would prefer to give control over to God... none of us are perfect... God created/wrote us
that way... perhaps somewhere in the timeline he will give us perfection...
Was it 3 or seven days it took God to create the whole thing? According to the Bible
of course... Imagine what he can write in the blink of an eye.
Great last poem aly... it spoke to me in a contradictory way but great write
nevertheless... | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/22/2006 2:58:14 PM | Every whirling atom and its corresponding galaxy
Is a fine example of Gods poetry.
Does he write about his longing, for love poems are the best
Is he writing to Mother, his beloved Godess?
Is he writing of his love and how it reverberates
Throughout the universal minds and how it translates
Into our deepest wishes, our kindest dearest dreams
To live in a state of expanding bliss, impossible as it seems.
I think he knows of what he makes and there they both await
For us to join them dancing there, within that blissfull state
But first we must pass through our doubts, our fears and our old pain
To live alive in the universe and be that bliss again. | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/23/2006 11:54:44 AM | Sometimes, alas, God is a very awkward poet,
for only He or She can rhyme abundance
with scarcity... | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/23/2006 2:30:37 PM | The earth gives blissfilled abundance, it's a pity
That she's acutely unaware of the politics of scarcity.
Control of the soul
by power over food
and now water,
soon air
and we dare
to let them get away with it. | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/23/2006 4:24:05 PM | Who is this we who let them
get away with it, Neseemo,
my friend, but you
and I? | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/23/2006 4:34:28 PM | Who is responsable for the wind?
I believe it is you and I
and collective conciousness creates
the lives that we live and die
We are responsable for our part
of the creation we hold to be true
who is responsable for the pains
of society, why me and you!
for every sweat shop piece we buy
we have condoned a crime
and for each malicious tale we tell
we are part of spreading more grime
for every lie and every deciet
we make up the world that we know
how much better does truth serve
with positive action to show. | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/23/2006 4:41:13 PM | Right on!
And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God
On England's pleasant pastures seen?
And did the Countenance Divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among these dark Satanic mills?
Bring me my bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my chariot of fire.
I will not cease from mental fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand
Till we have built Jerusalem
In England's green and pleasant land.
Wm Blake | |
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| When God composes poetry
Posted: 10/23/2006 7:29:28 PM | ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
OMG one of my all time favourites....
sung at the last night of the Proms and also at the end of every school year in every school in the UK...
I am belting that out right now...wonderful hymn and if you ever visit those Dark Satanic mills you understand what Blake meant........
thanks Jer....
thought you were persona non grata??????????
Glad you ain't..... | |
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| Tho' we are Miles apart...
Posted: 10/24/2006 5:31:16 AM | Yes, was persona non grata for a brief time, then was persona on my kneesa asking for forgiveness, and always ready to sing Jerusalem together if you call me...
And do you know this one by the immortal Blake - not alas set to music far as I know:
London
I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.
How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.
But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.
Wm Blake | |
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| Tho' we are Miles apart...
Posted: 10/24/2006 7:22:13 AM | Don't know that one but love the line
"The mind-forg'd manacles I hear"
We bind ourselves with manacles
of the mind
hearing only what we want to hear
selectively
How much better it would be
to listen
freely
with apologies to Wm Blake
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| Let my personhood go
Posted: 11/1/2006 8:02:01 AM | It is wrong and possibly even
criminal to fantasize about another
human being. Jesus the man
was robbed of his humanity
that could have meant so much to us
by being treated as a God.
“Who do people say I am?”
he asked, wondering,
perhaps, what role or roles
he was being called upon to play
other than his only,
precious mortal self.
So it is with love. We seize on the other
with our minds, we project on to him or her
what we need them to be, never mind
who they know themselves to be...
Or think they might be. For we are all
in process of becoming, and these others,
who believe they love us, because they need
to believe they love or will be loved,
these others distract us from our path...
We might cry out as Moses did
on behalf of the captive Israelites:
“Let my personhood go,”
but the would-be Pharaoh
has us in his thrall...
J. Newman © November 1, 2006 | |
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| !
Posted: 11/6/2006 1:43:12 PM | She put her brand new prescription of Zestra
in a charming pink pouch beside their bed.
He put the Viagra in a manly royal blue sack.
But it was dark and they were excited
at the prospect ahead of them, so
in reaching, he got the Zestra,
had multiple orgasms, while
she got a hard-on that lasted
the whole night through but wasn’t
a damn bit of good to either of them! | |
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| !
Posted: 11/6/2006 3:23:55 PM | She stayed hard long into the next day
Her bitterness worsened
What good would it be for her to be hard
He now has multiple personalities
I harsh side effect of improper dosage
Her harsh ways now rule her
He talks to himself long into the night
If they could have just been ok with themselves
None of this would have happened
When you take the wrong drug to become Dionysus
You end up mumbling incoherantly in the corner
lip firmly spasing at the tickling of my finger
And she goes about the day being like stone | |
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| !
Posted: 11/6/2006 3:24:51 PM | Hang on sunshine.....
ZESTRA???????
what the eff have I been missing???
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| Let’s not talk about love...
Posted: 11/7/2006 1:43:06 PM | What a melancholy, lost, dismal, wretched lot we are,
each one calling out to his or her distant, dead or dying star,
the light from which still reaches us or so it seems to do.
Whatever happened to poems about daffodils? Or the war
in Iraq, or the profanity in the White House: the scourge
of the poor? People! People! Let’s broaden our horizons...
And let’s not talk ONLY about love... | |
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om
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Joined: 5/28/2006
Msg: 70 | |
| Let’s not talk about love...
Posted: 11/7/2006 2:32:39 PM | Let's not talk about love!
But give me poems of daffodils
Oceans of myth
And playgrounds of hope
So that I may know
The cry of death | |
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| Let’s not talk about love...
Posted: 11/7/2006 9:02:08 PM | om ^^^^^^ ;0)
Lets not talk about love.
Let us talk about the heady aroma
of fresh cut Cherry
planed to perfection
for a floor that will be walked on
by Hedonists
drunk on their own wine
of self adulation.
Damnation...what a waste
their taste buds
underdeveloped
their pedicured feet
will never know the sweet pain
of Cherry
freshly planed. | |
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| Between the lover and the loved
Posted: 11/10/2006 7:36:51 AM | Between the lover and the loved
there is one of those swinging doors
that open either way.
J. Newman © 10Nov06
Om, Pickles: BLOODY good, thanks... | |
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| Stuff Happens
Posted: 11/13/2006 10:27:08 PM | Hey Jer. I wonder if Rumsfeld is showing a little more teeth when he smiles these days after falling out of that bush onto the thrashing floor.
Heard from nee. You benevolent instigator - you should be Secretary of Defense.
I'm wondering about that campaign of yours that far outweighs the mongers' in bringing comfort to the oppressed. I can't get through to you via email. I'd like to help, but my two bits certainly can't go far. Can you let me know more.
Al | |
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om
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Joined: 5/28/2006
Msg: 74 | |
| Stuff Happens
Posted: 11/13/2006 11:53:37 PM | | Ditto,^, but printed that Jer, Ya good ol fart ya.:) | |
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| If you have venom in your veins,
Posted: 11/16/2006 5:19:23 PM | "During the Russo-Japanese war, the story goes, 'the Russians had only iodine, and the Japanese had only aspirin, so when a Russian soldier had a head-ache he was given iodine, and when a Japanese soldier had a bleeding wound he was given aspirin... '" Salvador Minuchin
If you have venom in your veins,
your pen, everything you write
or say will come out lethal.
Your shopping list:
...1 lb. opprobrium
...2 bunches vitriol
...ordure
...vengeance...
You intend to write
“I love you” but somehow
it comes out Die, you dirty dog!
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